


Reason I'm Breathing

by thereisaredeemer



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes - Suzanne Collins
Genre: 74th Hunger Games, 83rd Hunger Games, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Catching Fire did not happen, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, F/M, Gen, Mockingjay did not happen, Other, The songs are from The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-16 14:49:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29455554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thereisaredeemer/pseuds/thereisaredeemer
Summary: Nine years ago I volunteered for the Games, signing my death certificate, and learned Panem's best kept secret. In the arena I learned what the words 'There is no gift too great to give, no price too high to pay, for wife and kin' meant, swore an oath to the one who they thought was my enemy, shattered, broke, and then found a reason to keep breathing—his sister, Cleopatra...
Relationships: Cato & Clove (Hunger Games), Cato & Katniss Everdeen, Cato/Katniss Everdeen, Katniss Everdeen & Brutus, Katniss Everdeen & Enobaria, Katniss Everdeen & Original Female Character(s)
Kudos: 7





	Reason I'm Breathing

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Ice](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1077070) by [sunstruck](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunstruck/pseuds/sunstruck). 
  * Inspired by [ice and fire in our souls](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9495815) by [sunstruck](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunstruck/pseuds/sunstruck). 
  * Inspired by [A Rapture in Sapphire](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1599254) by [FrostedGemstones22](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrostedGemstones22/pseuds/FrostedGemstones22). 



> I have used a bit of a mix of movie and book information. The events of the story pretty much follow the books save for where I have changed them to fit my AU. I have only watched parts of the movie over my sister's shoulder so I can honestly say I don't know how much of what I have written is similar to it. After seeing a picture of Cato (a still from the movie) I decided to keep him looking pretty much like that (though I also like the bust of Octavian I am using for my cover art on FF.Net), but you will notice that Clove is not dark haired or young. That is because I have gone with my idea that District 2 is mostly made up of blonds and that you have to be sixteen or older to volunteer by their unofficial district rules. I have also dived deep into District 2's mindset and culture. Some of which I have derived from Sejanus Plith's (and his friend Marcus) character from The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes; you will see how I imagine them as you read. Because Mockingjay decidedly destroys the image I have created of District 2 I am ignoring all of that as well as Catching Fire so the Quell is very different. No victors are murdered though some (like Mags) have died of old age and there are Original Victor Character(s).  
> The dates are correct. In The Ballad of Snakes and Songbirds we are told that reaping day is held on the 4th of July (the bitter irony, it's our Independence Day) and in The Hunger Games we are given a day of the week for the day before the interviews (Sunday) so if you work backwards and forwards you get the dates. Also, it is a bit hard but if you are careful, you can calculate the length of the Games and find those dates as well.  
> I have also tried to stay true to S. Colins's formatting so victor instead of Victor (like I have seen in some places), reaping instead of Reaping, Games instead of games, district as a common noun, District as a proper noun, District Written-number when used in dialogue, District Numeral-number when not, written numbers (such as Katniss scores an eleven, there are seventeen chairs in the room) when not referring to a district's number. Song lyrics are italicized and not inside quotation marks. That sort of thing.  
> The stuff about tracker jacket immunity is out of my own head. Maybe it existed maybe it didn't. This is a fan fiction though the argument could be made that I am not a fan.  
> I would appreciate any type of feedback from "I hate this da da da why did you do this" to "you misspelled this word and are inconsistent here and will you please clarify what in the world you mean when you say da da da" to "I loved this portrayal of da da da".  
> This song here is one that I reference at the end, it is also the one Cato hums to Katniss. It is basically Cato's life song. So it helps to understand him and his past.
> 
> War is not freedom  
> Over my shoulder  
> I see a clearer view  
> All for my family  
> Reason I'm breathing  
> Everything to lose
> 
> Should I ask myself in the water  
> What a warrior would do?  
> Tell me, underneath my armor  
> Am I loyal, brave and true?  
> Am I loyal, brave and true?
> 
> Losing is easy  
> Winning takes bravery  
> I am a tiger's fool  
> Out in the open  
> No one to save me
> 
> The kindest of whispers are cruel  
> Should I ask myself in the water  
> What a warrior would do?  
> Tell me, underneath my armor  
> Am I loyal, brave and true?  
> Am I loyal, brave and true?
> 
> Cold is the morning  
> Warm is the dream  
> Chasing the answers  
> 'Til I can't sleep  
> Will I be stronger  
> Or will I be weak  
> When you're not with me?
> 
> Who am I without my armor?  
> Standing in my father's shoes  
> All I know is that it's harder  
> To be loyal, brave and true
> 
> Songwriters: Billy Crabtree / Jamie Hartman / Rosi Golan / Williams Gregson
> 
> Loyal Brave True lyrics © Kobalt Music Publishing Ltd., Walt Disney Music Company

**Reason I'm Breathing**

* * *

Wednesday, July 5th - Parade

* * *

Yesterday when I saw the replay of the reapings from each of the districts I had picked out the actual contenders. The male from 2 and the male from 11—surprise surprise, I never would have thought they could have raised anyone that big and strong—I figured that it would come down to those two in the end. But as I stared at the two of them in the stable beneath the Remake Center it was District 2 that I feared. He was a giant, though a little shorter than the boy from 11, and he walked like he belonged, like he was already crowned victor. He was in the prime of his health; strong, well fed, trained. 11 was tall and strong too, but I could see the signs—signs his prep team had tried to hide—of starvation. Oh, he had had enough to live on, but not enough to fill out.

I turned back to 2 and studied him. If this was to be the victor I wanted to at least learn something about him. He looked up, snapped his head around really, and his deep blue-green eyes bored into mine, anchoring me in place. Haymitch had told me all about him, about his kind. Killers. Beasts. Emotionless rampagers. But even if he hadn't, if he had laughed Peeta and I off and drowned himself in his drinks, I would have known. There was death in his eyes, and a blank mask on his face. My blood ran cold. My knees felt weak, like I was going to collapse. But I didn't show it, I had a mask of my own. A mask I had perfected over the years. A coping mechanism that had allowed me to face my fears a thousand times before. This was no different. I quirked a corner of my mouth like I was laughing at him and his display of power and turned away . . . but not before I had seen the crack in the facade—I had startled him. Then I heard his laugh from all the way across the room and knew he had called my bluff.

After the parade I felt him glaring at my back, felt the flames so cold that they burned—flames that were nothing like Cinna's. I tried to block him out . . . and failed. When I gave in and looked he gave me a slow, deadly grin, one that sent a shudder of fear through me, and mouthed the words, ' _Are you afraid . . . Twelve?'_ I shook my head. A lie. I was terrified. He knew it too.

He smirked . . .

. . . I turned away.

Somehow, though, we ended up in the same elevator. Peeta stood beside me, Effie on his other side, Cinna and Portia and our prep teams were scattered 'round about chattering and gushing over the splash we had made in the Capitol. But they were the only ones. Everyone else preserved a stony silence. Even District 2's teams were quiet, though to be fair they were muttering about us too. There was an invisible line down the middle of the elevator. We were on one side, 2 was on the other. The tension could have been cut with a knife, it was so thick. I closed my eyes and blocked everyone out. The chatter faded, the fear seeped away, I was back in the woods alone, listening to the songs of the mockingjays. And then . . .

. . . he spoke.

"Open your eyes, Twelve." It was an order.

One I did not obey.

I kept my mask up as I scrambled for that sense of comfort that I had had only a moment before. _How had he broken in?_

"It's rude not to look at a person when they're talking to you," he drawled lazily, but with an edge of something deadly.

The silence stretched.

"I prefer it this way," I hissed through my teeth. _Why is he doing this?_

Once more the silence stretched and the tension in the air doubled.

"Well then," he conceded, though I got the idea he didn't do that often, "tell me, Twelve, what were the people back home thinking when they saw you come out . . . burning?" His voice was mocking me. He should not have been able to break through into my safe place. Gale had never broken in, not even Prim had. And it wasn't like it was my nerves acting up. I was unaware of anyone or anything but him. Not Peeta or Effie or the redundant high pitched chatter of the prep teams. Only him. _How?_

"Fire Girl, what was their reaction?"

As panic began setting in I gave up searching and embraced the fear that was pulsing through my veins. He was goading me to boast, to tell him how excited and proud my district was, and then he'd crush my pride in the dust with a few choice words. But there was something he had not taken into account. I came from a mining district where the fear of fire was more prevalent than the fear of anything else. There had been no cheers, at least not from the residents of the Seam who made up more than three-fourths of the approximate 8,000 persons census number.

"There were screams." I whispered, describing the reactions of the people from the Seam, the miners, "People fainted, they shouted my name. Then they realized I wasn't hurting, realized it wasn't real . . . and they caught their breaths, slowed their hammering hearts. Some of the miners were cursing, others were holding the faces of their loved ones into their chests to hide the images . . . .

"They're all home now, trying to sleep—most are failing, in their dreams they keep seeing me lit up . . . coming towards them. Now my face is changing, they see their loved ones engulfed in the flames instead. Only these flames are real. They hear explosions. The ground seems to shake. The sirens sound all around them. They wake up sweating, screaming, they don't go back to sleep again."

I opened my eyes and he was right there in my face, inches away. He'd crossed the invisible divide. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Peeta staring at us worriedly, but no one else seemed to have noticed. My eyes were captured by his, orbs so dark and full of . . . something unnamable. There was ice in his eyes. But also surprise. I regained my equilibrium. He was human beneath the machine, and human was something I could relate to.

"That wasn't what you expected," I stated. "Was it?"

He was silent, analyzing me. Then he tilted his head to one side. "No."

Satisfied, I closed my eyes once more, but before I did I saw the hint of gold about his neck. A chain. He stepped back over the line, back into his territory, but his eyes didn't leave me. The comfort of my safe place didn't return because I could still feel him there, watching me. Then his presence was gone. It spoke to the strength of my mental walls that I didn't feel the elevator slow or hear it ding or the doors open. It spoke to the strength of my mental walls that I did not hear Peeta call my name or feel him shaking me till he slammed my head against the wall a little too hard.

It _also_ spoke to my state of calm when I threw my hands out and punched him in the ribs when he startled me back into myself. I saw the worry and shock written on the faces of Cinna and Portia as Peeta stumbled back.

"Are you okay?" he called to me when I stalked past out of the elevator and away. Anywhere but that elevator.

"Of course!" I shouted back.

But I wasn't. _How had he slipped past? What will that mean for the future? What else can he do that I am unaware of?_

* * *

Thursday, July 6th - Training Center

* * *

When we entered the gymnasium, side by side, in matching clothes, I felt twenty-three pairs of eyes flick over and settle on us. I wanted to turn around and run away into the woods . . . . But it was too late for that. I had had that chance on Tuesday morning. I had laughed it off. Prim had been reaped . . .

. . . and suddenly I was glad, _so glad_ , that I had refused Gale's offer because if I had not been there, if I had run away, Prim would have been the one to go. She would have been the one standing beside Peeta. Perhaps Haymitch would not have decided to help her. Somehow I find myself meeting the District 2 male's cold gaze. She would have been the one facing him and she never would have had the courage to look him in the eye. She would have slunk in cowed with puffy red eyes and stuck by Peeta, and her lips would have trembled every time anyone spoke with her, and she would have had nightmares each night, and Buttercup would not have been there to comfort her . . . .

To the shock of everyone present I threw back my head and laughed in relief. I was in the Capitol and I could not have been more happy about it. Neither Peeta's look of confused astonishment or 2's mocking glare could dampen my mood. My shoulders drew back, my spine straitened, I fell into my hunting stance. I was a hunter. I would not be hunted. I listened only partially to the head trainer, Atala—what type of name was that—, as she explained the training schedule, rules, and guidelines. The rest of my attention I used to study the tributes, and I found that only a few of them were my size or smaller. At the same time though, only a few of them were as well fed as I—of those few, only the Careers were better fed. All the Careers, maddeningly, were tall and broad and heavy. And no doubt, well trained.

As Atala dismissed everyone I turned brightly to Peeta.

"Shall I teach you how to trap a rabbit?"

He gave me another confused look. "Yeah, sure . . . . "

As we reached the empty station and elated trainer he leaned close and whispered, "Are you alright? You're acting strange."

"Happy?" I questioned, my fingers working a piece of twine.

"Yeah."

"That's because I _am_ _happy_. I nearly did something on reaping day that I am really glad I didn't do. I'm happy because I'm here, in the Capitol, a tribute for the Games."

"That is supposed to make sense?" Peeta wondered.

"Yes." Since he was still confused I continued, "If I am here Prim isn't. Can you imagine _her_ here, trying not to show how scared she is? Can you imagine her _killing_ anyone? Let alone one of the Careers?"

"No."

"And that is why I am so happy, because I am in the Games."

"Is this how you are each day with Hawthorne?"

That question gave me a pause. "No," I replied finally. "No, we often laugh together, but no. I'm never giddy. At least not usually."

We spent the hour there at that station tying knots. I showed Peeta a really basic snare and left him working on it while I worked on a far more complicated one which Gale had been hammering into my brain for the past two months. I was nearly finished with it when I heard a voice behind me, when I felt the cold ripping across my back.

"Tell me something, Twelve—"

I cut him off. "Go away Two," I snapped.

"I am talking to you," he argued with a tone that showed just how annoyed he was with my lack of manners.

I whirled around and just like before he was right there. His eyes caught mine, but I managed to shake their hypnosis off and said through my teeth, "What is with you? Why can't you just leave me alone?"

He cocked his head to the side just like before. "Do you really want me to answer that question?"

"No."

"Then don't ask questions you don't want answered."

I turned around again to Peeta. "Camouflage?"

"Sure."

We started walking away, but 2's hand whipped out and grasped my arm, if I had thought his gaze burned, his sudden touch was worse. It felt like I had stuck my arm into a snowstorm and left it there, uncovered, for an hour before running hot water over it. It was unnatural. "We're not finished, Twelve," he hissed.

Then, as Peeta and several others started toward us, he released me slowly. The burning vanished. We both went our separate ways, me to the camouflage station, he to the throwing range. After a few minutes, enough for me to decide that I could not dye my skin in hopes of blending in anywhere while in the arena, I began to lose my concentration. Drawing was not my forte. Climbing, foraging, running, shooting, swimming, surviving, silence—those were my strengths.

My eyes flitted to 2. He was one of the Careers, the ones who had trained their whole lives to compete in the Games. He could afford to show off his skills because he could back his claim on those weapons up. He could throw spears from fifteen yards all day long if he wanted and nobody would dare reach the Cornucopia and snap them in pieces to leave him without his weapon of choice because he was _big_. Because he could snap that person's neck with his bare hands. No matter how good I was I could not show off. I could not go over to the archery station and shoot till my mind numbed and my shoulders ached.

Jealousy pumped in my veins as I watched him rock back on one heel, draw back his arm, and hurl a spear powerfully forward. Over and over again. Each time hitting his mark. Each time sinking the spear deep into the dummy. What would I have given for a chance to do just that. A heavy tread, light breathing. I felt the girl behind me before she spoke.

"What are you staring at, Twelve?"

I weighed the pros and cons of answering her. On the one hand she might leave me alone if I ignored her, but then again she could lose her temper. On the other hand if I answered with the truth she would get angry. I figured the truth was best. Besides, I wanted to see her reaction.

"Fire Girl?" she repeated.

I turned around deliberately. The girl from 2 was a good three inches taller and sixty-some pounds heavier than me. She had dark blond hair and cold brown eyes. Her lips were twisted in a laidback smile.

"The most infuriating person alive," I answered cooly.

"Cato? Infuriating? I suppose." For a moment she looked uncertain. Then she glanced over at him, and I could have sworn I saw a flicker of amusement. "I would have thought you'd give a different answer."

"That I would have lied?" I could not have known that with those words I won her grudging respect. Or that she had been impressed by my love for my sister and that later, in the arena, at the Cornucopia, she would save my life and gift me a weapon. Purposefully, because she wanted to honor my sacrifice. I could not have known that she would decide to give me a fair chance to live . . . simply because I told her the truth. At that moment I was wondering why she wasn't exploding, and what type of name _Cato_ was.

She whipped a knife seemingly out of nowhere and flipped it high into the air. I flinched, caught off guard.

"Never seen a real knife, have you?" the lazy smile was once more in place.

How I longed to wipe it off her pretty face! My eyes followed the ark of the knife as it fell. I noticed her hand positioned to jab out and catch it. In that moment I decided to ignore Haymitch for once. As it tumbled I reached forward plucking it out of the air, turned, and whipped it into a nearby target. It quivered in the dead center, a stroke of luck.

I turned back to her and smiled at her shocked expression. "Have _you_?"

The girl gave a sniff and stomped away, heading for her district partner. I turned back to Peeta who was looking between me and the knife in the target.

"Let's move on," I muttered, and without waiting for him to reply headed over to the next station.

At 12:00 all twenty-four of us headed into one of the rooms which branched off the gymnasium. There were twenty-four tables scattered throughout the room for eating at and then about ten ranged along the walls which were piled with food. An Avox handed us each a plate and utensils and we filed around the room heaping up our plates. Most people sat alone except for the Career Tributes, who crowded around four tables that they had shoved together. Peeta and I sat together per Haymitch's orders and tried and failed to make conversation.

About halfway through the meal I noticed the silence from the direction of the Careers' table. Then I felt his—Cato's—gaze, I felt the ice. Then I felt his presence. Strangely though I didn't hear his footsteps. I would not have thought a Career could be silent.

"Twelve," he said, and he was right behind me.

Peeta stiffened. "What do you want Two?" he demanded hostilely.

Cato ignored him and asked me a question. "Are you afraid of death?"

His voice was a whisper, a snake wrapping around my head, sinking in to my mind. I closed my eyes and tried and failed to block it out. In a last ditch effort to keep him out I leaned forward and covered my head, resting it on the table. He only followed me. He leaned closer.

Ice . . . .

Cold fire . . . .

The snake and the flaming ice whispered all around me. Twining through my hair, around my arms, my neck . . . . I felt his breath hot on the back of my neck. I gave up the battle of wills. Slowly I sat up, giving him time to lean back—I didn't want to touch him again. I turned around in my seat. Looked him in the eye. Dared him to repeat the question.

He took the challenge, "Are you?"

"No."

His narrowed eyes held me frozen in place, I could not have moved if I had wanted to. The imaginary flames flickered all around. "No, no you're not." That seemed to intrigue him, "Pain?"

I thought back on all my memories of the people who had found themselves on our kitchen table. _Am I afraid to be them?_ "No."

"Thirst?"

"No."

"Hunger?"

"Cato, hunger? _Really_? No." I scoffed.

"So you don't fear anything then?"

"I never said that. You just haven't hit on the right question."

"Well then, what _are_ you afraid of?" He questioned. His eyes held genuinely curiosity which contrasted starkly with his ice hard face. _Who is he?_ I wondered, _The real him, not the Career._

"Tell me," I countered, "did your mother's parents disown her when she married your father?"

"Of course not my—"

I ignored his angry outburst and barreled on, my hackles rising with each word. "Have you ever walked down the street on a sweltering summer afternoon and seen a family of nine, who you had spoken to just the week before, sprawled out on the ground with flies buzzing over their hunger-shrunken corpses?

"Have you ever felt the ground shake beneath your feet and heard the sirens wail, and have you ever leapt from your desk at school and rushed over to the mine entrance and waited for the miners to begin streaming out? Have you stood there and watched as an old man with a bent back and a hacking cough stumbled out, followed by a young man clutching his crushed arm to his chest?

"Did you see the flood of others, most of them injured in some way come stumbling up? A boy just eighteen dragged himself out, but there was something wrong with him. Did you notice that he was missing half his face, an arm, most of his leg? Did you see him collapse on the ground, the last of his strength spent in escaping the smoke belching tunnels? Did you see the last two stagger out with an old woman on their backs? Did you see her crushed chest? Did you hear the Forman announce that all survivors had been evacuated.

"Was it you who stood in the Justice Building and received your father's medal of valor? Was it your mother staggered into her room and shut the world out—including her two daughters? Did you at the age of eleven find yourself the sole provider for your seven-year-old sister and your unresponsive mother?

"Have you ever come so near to dying, because you have't eaten anything but boiled water and a few dried mint leaves that week, only to be saved by a chance meeting, a kind act, and a dandelion? Have you ever come to the conclusion that _anything_ is better than watching your sister die?"

As I spoke my voice choked with anger and Cato's eyes went through a variety of expressions, anger, confusion, disbelief, horror, pity, and finally, understanding and even a bit of shame. "No," he whispered. "No."

"You've asked what I fear. I fear fire because it has burned what—who—I loved. I fear loss, because I know what a broken heart is. I fear love because I _will_ _not_ become my mother, _will not_ become someone who could leave her children to starve . . . I fear kindness," here I glanced at Peeta, "because I cannot repay it."

Cato didn't blink, the storm in his eyes had gentled, the ice had melted, but his face still wore a mask of indifference. He was studying me hard, but the ice was caressing, no longer hostile, like a soft snowfall. Finally he blinked, and jerked back as though stung. The ice and the fire evaporated. Then he stalked away. I simply watched him go. He reached his table and sat back down and attacked his food with vengeance. I turned away, back to my food, and saw Peeta staring at me with a wide open mouth.

"What?" I snapped.

"I never knew . . . . " He trailed off when he saw my glare.

After lunch we headed back in and threw some knives. Peeta was horrible, I was halfway decent. Nothing like the District 2 female, but better than anyone else. All the while I could feel Cato's eyes on me, but I never turned around. _Why, why had I told him all that?_ I had no answer for myself.

That night as I tried to sleep I kept remembering those sea-blue eyes. Every time I closed my eyes I saw them and I hated it. When I thought about him all I could remember was that he had broken through, that he had wormed his way in, that he had eyes the color of the sea—a color I had only ever seen in pictures—that he burned like ice . . . and then he had not. I tossed for half the night on that fluffy big bed trying to redirect my thoughts. Eventually I came to the conclusion that only fresh air could clear my head so I got up and threw on some clothes and slipped on the leather shoes that went with my training clothes. Then I slipped out and found the flight of stairs that led to the roof that Peeta had shown me.

I climbed slowly in the dark, entered the domed room, and slipped out onto the roof. As the cool air hit me I rolled my shoulders and slunk silently over to the railing which overlooked the city below. The view wasn't as spectacular as the stars back home and the air quality was horrendous but it felt good.

For some reason I thought of my father. I thought of the songs he once sang. There was this song he used to sing me. One he said his father taught him, that his grandmother had taught _him_ before. He had said she loved to sing more than anything, though he didn't remember meeting her. Family legend rumored that she had been Covey—groups of wandering people, singers and performers, who had been rounded up after the war and forced into the districts nearest where they had been found—and that she had been the cousin of the victor of the 10th Hunger Games. That last part was pure silliness, of course. Thinking of my father's songs brought the words to the forefront of my mind and the lyrics slipped over my lips.

 _La, la, la, la,  
_ _La, la, la, la, la, la,  
_ _La, la, la, la, la, la . . ._

I sang to him. Sang the old, old words to the old, old tune.

 _You're headed for heaven,  
_ _The sweet old hereafter,  
_ _And I've got one foot in the door.  
_ _But before I can fly up,  
_ _I've loose ends to tie up,  
_ _Right here in  
_ _The old therebefore._

I sang him a promise. A promise that I intended to keep.

 _I'll be along  
_ _When I've finished my song,  
_ _When I've shut down the band,  
_ _When I've played out my hand,  
_ _When I've paid all my debts,  
_ _When I have no regrets,  
_ _Right here in  
_ _The old therebefore,  
_ _When nothing  
_ _Is left anymore._

 _I'll catch you up  
_W _hen I've emptied my cup,  
__When I've worn out my friends,  
__When I've burned out both ends,  
__When I've cried all my tears,  
__When I've conquered my fears,  
__Right here in  
__The old therebefore,  
__When nothing is left anymore._

A promise that I would not leave the arena without repaying Peeta, without fighting with all my might and mien. Even if it was a fairytale, even if my great-grandmother's cousin Lucy Grey Everdeen never was a victor, I would be, or I would fall with pride and dignity. I would show Panem that District 12 was not weak or cowardly.

 _I'll bring the news  
_ _When I've danced off my shoes,  
_ _When my body's closed down,  
_ _When my boat's run aground,  
_ _When I've tallied the score,  
_ _And I'm flat on the floor,  
_ _Right here in  
_ _The old therebefore,  
_ _When nothing  
_ _Is left anymore._

 _When I'm pure like a dove,  
_W _hen I've learned how to love,  
__Right here in  
__The old therebefore,  
__When nothing  
__Is left anymore._

The last words were carried away on the breeze. I dropped my head on the railing and stared out blankly. I must have stood there for half an hour with my eyes closed, leaning on my arms, before I realized I was not alone. The feeling had snuck up on me slowly, like it was so natural that it took me a while to notice. Once I was aware I found that I could feel the eyes on my back. It was a familiar weight. Cato. I cursed myself inwardly for not noticing him immediately. _How had I not? Were my wood-senses becoming dull?_

Strangely enough, I was as relaxed as I would have been if my watcher had been Gale. That realization confused me. Cato was my enemy . . . and yet . . . and yet I did not fear him in any way. All fear I had had of him had begun fading away in the elevator and had vanished entirely at lunch when I had exploded at him. Now I simply wished we weren't stuck in a competition from which only one of us would come away alive. I decided not to try to understand that.

"When are you planning on revealing yourself? Cato?" I whispered over the wind.

"I wasn't," came the answering relaxed murmur.

"I could go back to pretending you're not there . . . ?" _How am I not furious for him listening to me sing?_ I guessed it was because I was letting go of my father. I was opening the door for song to come back into my life. Talking to Cato had released the memories again and the anger was fading out of them. I was free.

He didn't answer for a long while and I almost wondered whether he was there at all. If I had imagined the entire exchange.

"I have a little sister too."

The soft words surprised me and I turned around and found him standing in the shadows.

"Cleopatra." He continued, "Eight years old, a tiny little slip of a girl. She's not like me. When I come home after a hard day of training and she sees a bruise or a gash she'll patch it up for me . . . I'd spill my blood for her."

I started to smile. It was the first _real_ smile I had given since Tuesday morning. It was strange to think of Cato with a little child—he was just so . . . so . . . so _unfriendly_.

"She sounds like Prim." I replied. I gave a homesick sigh as I thought about her, "She has my mother's blood. If she sees anything that's injured she wants to bring it home and cure it. Where I see food she sees a pet." The amount of trouble that sentiment of her's had caused me was incredible.

I let out a soft laugh as I recalled a particularly pleasing memory, "I once bought this she-goat, it'd been chewed up by some wild dog who got through the fence somehow and was worth nothing to its owner, and when she saw it she began crying and laughing at the same time and then she and my mother stayed up nearly all night with it. When we finally convinced her to sleep she insisted on sleeping with it in front of the fire. That goat couldn't have died if it'd had tried."

Cato nodded, a soft faraway look in his eye. "Love. Honor. Truth. Bravery. Loyalty," he recited. "I will love, bring honor to, speak truth to and of, be brave for, be loyal to, my wife, my kin, and my district."

He took a step forward, into the moonlight.

I shoved off the railing.

"We live by that oath in Two," he murmured, gently, thoughtfully.

Carefully we began circling each other. Neither of us certain _just how_ to gage the other. The moonlight glinted off some sort of necklace on his neck.

"There is _no_ _gift_ too great to give, _no_ _price_ too high to pay, for wife and kin;" the intensity of his belief in those words was palpable, "there is no excuse for lying; there is no vice greater than cowardice; there is _no_ _betrayal_ worse than disloyalty to wife . . . and kin . . . and district; there is no honor greater than to die having fulfilled this creed."

"You understand." I stated, ' _You understand why I volunteered, you understand why I will do anything to get back. You understand why.'_

"I do," he agreed with a nod, "I do."

We paused our game of cat and mouse and then he stepped forward. He had this strange slinking gait, similar to that of a wild cat and it unnerved me. But like that lynx from years ago he could be good company when he wanted. Like that cat, too though, he would have to die for me to bring home food for Prim. His expression was that of a hunter's and I was his prey—but I did not fear him. I stepped backward and he followed.

He stepped forward, I stepped back.

He stepped forward, I stepped back.

My shoulders bumped gently against the cement wall behind me. He took another step and then raised his arms to lean against the wall behind my head, caging me in. It was then that I realized just how tall he was. He loomed over me like a giant from some ancient tale.

"Are you afraid now? Twelve? I could snap your neck . . . easily." He hissed in my face.

"No." And strangely, I wasn't.

"Why not? What is there to stop me?" He snarled angrily. But his eyes gave him away, his rage was directed at himself. Because he was really asking himself those questions. He couldn't hurt me and he hated the weakness.

"I don't think you _could._ " I whispered, articulating my thoughts, and lifted a hand to his shoulder, tapping the side of his neck absentmindedly, "No . . . " I decided, " . . . I'm safe from you."

I picked at the chain around his neck. Finically it tugged out of his shirt. It was a thick gold chain. The pendent a solid rectangle.

He jerked his head to one side and the necklace slipped from my loose grasp.

"Really?" the word was deceptively soft, but behind it was all the venom in the world.

"Yes."

"Well you're wrong. I'll make your death slow and painful!"

"No you won't." I whispered.

"What makes you think that?"

I smiled and tapped his neck again. "Prim and Cleopatra will be watching."

He gulped convulsively and ducked his head, hissing, "Curse you. Curse you Twelve!"

I tapped his neck again, "The joys of being the eldest," I replied sarcastically.

There was silence. It stretched and stretched.

"Yeah. It's always on us." He agreed wearily.

There had been something written on that rectangle of gold.

* * *

Friday, July 7th - Training Center

* * *

The next day Peeta and I continued weaving among the stations in the gymnasium. We left most of the weapon stations alone. But even Peeta, stickler for rules, couldn't stay away entirely. We visited the hand-to-hand-combat station and he showed off. I personally just soaked up the experience; how to throw a decent punch, how to dodge a kick, how to use pressure points, how to use gravity to my advantage by leaping on someone's back . . . .

I could feel it when Cato had his eyes on me and I knew when he became exasperated with my lack of expertise. I was actually half surprised that he didn't come over just to rant at me for my lack of finesse. But I suppose now that that would have ruined the image District 2 had perfected over the years.

Later we found our way to the throwing range where I excelled with the hurling spears, though I could never hope for such range as Cato or the District 1 male had. We investigated the tridents and axes and laughed over our inability to be anything other than clumsy with a sword. It was not till I was back at the snares that Cato came over. Peeta was visiting the restroom and sampling the food for lunch so he wasn't there to glare at him.

Strangely enough Cato didn't say anything. He just began tying knots. He tried a simple snare but, much to my amusement, got befuddled up and then lost patience and threw it on the floor with a growl.

"How do you do it?" he exclaimed, turning to me.

"I don't lose my temper."

The trainer snorted with amusement and Cato whirled on him, "No one asked for your opinion!"

The man raised his hands in surrender.

"That's just what I mean." I muttered with a smirk, "Control yourself. You need a little something called patience to do anything well."

"I am not patient."

I snickered suddenly, wondering how in the world Gale had ever put up with me. I had been a horrible student, always complaining, and losing hope, and throwing my projects down.

"What are you snickering about?" Cato asked dangerously, lowering this glare at me and stalking forward.

I set down my rope, and tried to soothe his temper, "You just remind me of myself. I've said the same exact thing a hundred times. I mean, who that knows me has ever accused me of being patient, except when—" I cut myself off realizing that I had been about to tell him about my real skills.

"When what?"

"None of your business."

He gave me a look, but didn't press. In silence continued our projects, mine one that was supposed to leave an opponent dangling in the air, his one that should have been able to trap a squirrel but he was setting it on the ground instead of in one of the false-trees so it would not have caught anything, even if it had been tied correctly.

"My father was supposed to volunteer during his eighteenth year, but a week before the reaping he was injured." Cato said suddenly, "A friend of his volunteered in his place. All my life I've been reaching for the standard my father set for the Hadley family. He holds more records than any other graduate from the Academy." He fell silent, as though he had said too much.

I glanced at him, and to my shock I saw words reflected in his gaze. I hadn't thought he could communicate like that. Or he that could understand that sort of communication. It meant that his _"I do"_ last night had been his answer to my silent response as well as my verbal one. **' _It's not just for Cleo that I'm fighting, it's for my father. I'm his second chance,'_** his eyes added. Then he said, "You don't stand a chance."

Unable to keep from baiting him I countered with the words: "Keep thinking that."

He growled at me under his breath and left.

* * *

Saturday, July 8th - Training Center/Gamemakers

* * *

When Atala announced that our private sessions with the Gamemakers were about to begin I sank into a chair beside the door with Peeta and clutched my head in my hands. _What was it that he had said when I accused him of wearing a mask to hide his true personality?_

The scene replayed in my mind. We had been standing together in the midst of the Career pack and I had accused of wearing a mask to guard his actual emotions. For some reason he had gotten angry. He had already been taunting me about my fire starting skills—a skill I had not thought his district bothered teaching.

_"What do you know about masks?" He had snarled, suddenly there in my face._

_"Enough."_

_"Yes . . . yes you do." He had stepped back and retreated into the arms of his alliance._

Cato had not been happy with being called out. Not that it was my fault that I could recognize the signs of internal mental armor. He just hadn't been in a good mood.

I rubbed my cheeks, trying to remove the lingering memory of his glare. It faded slowly and I began to relax. Soon we would be in the arena and we would be at each other's throats. I could only hope there would be a bow at the Cornucopia and that no one would guess it was mine.

"What do you think you'll score?" Peeta asked, pulling me from my mind.

I shrugged, "No idea," I answered. Scores were not anything I was very worried about. Sponsors were Haymitch's problem, not mine. "A six maybe."

Peeta rolled his eyes. "You are _so bad_ at evaluating yourself! First with Haymitch and now with me."

"An eight then," I snorted, a bit annoyed with him.

"More likely." He agreed almost bitterly, "Though I honestly wouldn't be surprised if you puled a nine."

We lapsed into a kind of uncomfortable silence after that.

"A nine?" a voice behind us scoffed.

 _Cato_.

_Why did he have to approach me now?_

"Get!" I snapped, flapping my hands at him.

"I'm not some dog to ordered about, Twelve." He warned.

Raising my gaze I met his emotion-dead eyes. "Oh, shut up, Two!" I sighed, "I'm too tired for this."

Surprisingly though, he did. Sure he opened his mouth a few times as though to argue, but he _didn't_. Without knowing why I did it I reached out and patted his arm. It was a ' _thanks'_ in the only way I could manage at the moment. He twitched. Then he awkwardly patted my shoulder in return.

"Cleo would have liked you," he whispered. Then he stepped through the door.

Peeta's eyebrows raised in a question that I chose to ignore. It wasn't something you could explain to a youngest child. Or anyone really. Even Gale would not have understood why, _how_ , I could be so familiar with him, a Career Tribute. A killing machine. Even I couldn't, not really.

I think I understand better now, but not much.

* * *

Monday, July 10th - Interviews

* * *

It was right after the interviews, and I was furious with Peeta. Too angry to even see anything other than the corridor before me. So of course I didn't notice Cato when he fell into step beside me. But I did hear his soft calculated whisper, "On the roof. Ten o'clock. Be there."

Even now, all these years later, I don't know why I brushed the back of my hand against his knuckles in a promise to be there. I don't know why, but I did it and I wouldn't take it back now for the world. At 10:00 I stepped out onto the roof and was promptly slammed into the wall quite harshly. I already knew, even as he pushed me back, who my attacker was. I also knew that he would not hurt me. His forearm pressed against my throat, holding me against the cement wall. I did not doubt that someone somewhere was watching and sending someone to 'rescue' me. The didn't want one of their precious tributes harmed before tomorrow. But I wasn't afraid. Not of Cato.

"How," Cato snarled, "did you get that eleven?"

I closed my eyes and sighed. "Cato . . . . " ' _Please, not now . . . '_ I begged him silently.

He released me like he was burned. Maybe he was. "How . . . ?" his voice was soft, tired. He turned away and sank against the wall beside me. He slid to the ground. "They've painted a flaming target on your back, Ember. And _everyone_ has seen it." He whispered the words so low that I only barely heard them over the wind because I had trained my ears over the years to hear the slightest noise.

"I know . . . I know . . . . I have a temper too, Glacier." That name seemed to fit his personality. He was cold and hard but underneath that armor he was kind. Not that I knew very much about glaciers since the subject was only touched upon in passing in my lessons. "I've just learned to control it better than you . . . usually. Some things bring it up blazing."

He gave me a sideways glance, and I slid to the ground next to him, rubbing my sore shoulders. He'd bruised them badly. "You caught that did you?" **_'Caught that stray word. Ember. The only word that really describes you?'_** that was how that glance finished his sentence.

One side of my mouth quirked up. ' _Yeah, yeah I did. Not much escapes me.'_ "It's not the worst nickname." I said lightly, still trying to get used to communicating nonverbally with anyone other than Gale.

 ** _'I've noticed.'_** Then he looked away, over the garden, like he had said something he hadn't meant to let slip out. "I take it you weren't in on the confession of undying love?"

"What makes you think that?" I asked, a little thrown by the abrupt subject change.

He chuckled, "I saw your little interchange in the hallway with Lover Boy. I wouldn't have thought you had it in you."

 _Huh_. I hadn't realized there had been any witnesses to that argument. _What must he think of me after seeing me ram my district partner to the ground in anger?_ _That I am dangerous? That I deserve my score?_ "Then I suppose you know that Haymitch has ordered me to keep up the ruse with Peeta in the arena as well."

"Ruse? That boy _is_ in love with you." Cato's words seemed bitter and mocking to me. But I couldn't tell whether it was because he thought Peeta was an idiot for harboring feelings for someone who he could never have or because he thought I was the idiot for not realizing it earlier. Even though I knew that Peeta didn't love me. If he did—no, Cato was only trying to get under my skin.

"No," I inform him, almost primly, "Haymitch and he came up with it as a sponsor strategy."

Cato snorted through his nose and turned back to me. "Ember, a guy knows when another guy is trying to stake a claim. Which, by the way, he is pretty shoddy at."

 _How close has he been watching? And what in the world does he mean by staking a claim?_ "I don't believe you," I declared, unwilling to admit that there is a possibility that Peeta wasn't just a kind person, but that he was in love with me. If he was in love with me I would have to figure out how to deal with it, but I wouldn't have Gale or even Madge—somehow I thought that Madge would be better able to talk me through it—to talk to. Haymitch would tell me it didn't matter. Effie would giggle and tell me that I was lucky. _Ugh! There is no way!_

"Believe what you want," Cato grumbled. But then he offered, "I'll take him out for you, that way you won't have to get all _touchy-feely_."

"No!" I would not make deals like that behind my partner's back. I owed him my life. "And why would I have to get all . . . _that_." My nose wrinkled up. Touchy-feely and Katniss were not words that belonged in the same sentence.

He laughed softly and elbowed my gently. "Your strategy is that you are madly in love. Why wouldn't you?" he asked condescendingly. "If you want to pull it off at all you are going to have to kiss him sometime."

I couldn't help shuddering at the idea. I had volunteered thinking that the worst part of the Games would be the killing and eventually dying. Then I learned that the one thing I had sworn never to do—fall in love—I would be forced to pretend. _And,_ because of that I would have to hug and kiss a virtual stranger. I rarely hugged anyone other than Prim. Gale and Posy and on occasion, Vick or my mother, were the only others and that was once in a blue moon. I never kissed _anyone_.

 ** _'You'll do fine, Ember.'_** He promised.

I sighed and shifted closer to him for warmth. I hadn't dressed for the sharp wind that had picked up. He draped his arm around my shoulders.

 _'I wish we had never met. That we weren't . . . . '_ I trailed off unable to continue. Uncertain how far his disloyalty to the Capital went.

His eyebrow raised questioningly and he seemed a bit angry too, **_'Ripped away from our homes and forced to become murderers?'_**

 _'Yeah,'_ I agreed, a little surprised. _'I wouldn't have thought you would think that though.'_

 _"_ Why do you think we pound our chest when we win?" he queried randomly. I was beginning to become used to his abrupt subject changes. I shrugged in answer. I honestly didn't know. I had never thought about it. What good would it do me? The only time I really remembered it was when Gale ranted about it occasionally. "It is a salute," Cato explained.

"That much I know," I muttered rolling may eyes.

He rolled his back at me and continued, demonstrating, "Once for honor," he hit his free right first against his breast, "again for bravery," he repeated the action, "and a fist in the air for remembrance," he raised his fist above his head. It hadn't been a subject change I realized. It had been an explanation and an example of just how rebellious his district really was. He glanced at me and shifted his posture to something a bit more comfortable against the hard cement. **_'It's our way of honoring those who died.'_**

"The lot of you are sadistic murderers," I huffed, keeping up the ruse we have half-unconsciously been preserving for any hidden microphones. Anyone listening, would have thought we were having a suitably hostile conversation. Not too violent, but not even remotely friendly either. ' _No one ever guessed.'_

 ** _'That is the point . . . .'_** We lapsed back into silence, each of us lost in our own thoughts. I had wished as I sat there that I was back home with Gale in the woods. I had wished I that wasn't in the Training Center. I had wished that I had never come up onto the roof like Cato had asked. But I wonder now what he was thinking of as we sat there. Whether he was thinking of the past, of his home, or his sister. Or if he was thinking of the future, of the bloody arena, of me. Somehow I hope he was thinking of me.

 _"_ It better not come down to just the two of us," he whispered.

I shrugged, dismissing him. "The odds have never been in our favor." They weren't and would never be. I looked away.

"We're not friends, or allies, Ember," he muttered finally, looking out over the Capitol skyline.

Wearily I leaned over and rested my head on his shoulder. And through the cold wind he was comfortingly warm; he was solidly there beside me; he was _present_. Then his head tilted down to lie against mine. He began to hum some strange haunting tune. My eyes drifted closed.

"I wasn't under that misconception," I whispered, all the while wondering what Haymitch or Peeta would think if they had overheard our conversation and saw our strange position. Strange because in two days we would be in an enclosed arena out of which only one of us would come alive. Wondering, but not caring—not really. It wasn't any of their business, even if Peeta was in love with me. One of _us_ , because I knew that we two, Cato and I, were the endgame. Sure Thresh from 11 would be a large obstacle, and Foxface from 5 seemed to be a surviver, and Rue . . . but it would come down to Cato and I in the end. I did not doubt—could not doubt—that after watching everyone in the gymnasium. The odds were most definitely not in our favor. While Prim lived I would fight to survive, and while Cleopatra lived there was no chance he would back down.

"Sleep until the Dawn. I'll be there." The words only just reached my consciousness before I drifted off. They didn't make much sense. In fact I really could have imagined them. But that didn't keep me from mumbling a reply.

"Watch the stars for me. I'll be . . . . "

* * *

Day One, Tuesday, July 11th - Games

* * *

I woke just at that point when dawn was not yet there but the sky was lightening. One half of me was warm, the other was cold. In a few short hours I would be in the arena. Fighting for my life. Right then I was safe, protected in the arms of my—he wasn't my friend, but he wasn't my enemy, I didn't know what he was. For a second I allowed myself to bask in the peace and calm of Cato's arms. Then I elbowed him in the ribs till he loosened his grip. I could not allow another weakness in my armor. Peeta and Rue were enough. I could not afford to add Cato to the list. Especially since I knew that he would kill me if given the chance—even if a little voice whispered that he _couldn't_ hurt me even if he wanted to. Respect and understanding could only go so far. Especially when you had someone to get home to. I ignored the little voice that said it wasn't respect or understanding. Really that voice was quite silly.

He woke slowly, but easily. Together we stood, stretched and gazed out over the skyline. Both of us were tense. Last night had been, had been last night, today was a new day.

"Good luck."

I flinched in surprise. Then I glanced warily at him. He was holding out a hand for me to shake, or something like that. I stared at it. What had he said about being ripped away from ourselves, about his little sister, about his district, about himself, flashed through my mind and I grasped him strongly, after the fashion of the miners in 12. A tight clasp of the forearm, pulse resting on pulse; for a moment part of the other's life, feeling it pumping, burning. That old clasp was a gesture of trust too, because it let the other feel your own life force pumping as well. Trust, because the hand is so vital a piece of the body. Because if, in the correct situation, released you could fall to your death.

"With Lover Boy, I mean," he added.

"Good luck," I returned, sniffing disdainfully, "and, don't lose control of your temper."

He nodded. A jerky, marionette sort of nod. His fingers squeezed my arm almost convulsively—like Peeta had at the reaping, though I didn't make that connection till a few months later. He opened his lips and a thousand words seemed to spring to his tongue, but not a sound passed his lips.

I felt the same way. Like I was being stretched and torn, and mashed back together in the wrong shape. I hated it. I pushed it away. I pretended it didn't exist. I pulled up my armor and hid behind my shields.

I released his hand and as one we entered the domed room and started for the stairs. Together, but so far apart. Perhaps if I had been born in District 2, or he in 12, our story would have ended differently. I cannot say now, and I doubt I ever will be able to, no matter how many more years pass. In icy silence we slipped out of the stairwell.

"Until this afternoon." Cato gave me a sharp professional nod, obviously once more back under control. His Career mask was firmly in place. A taunting, proud smile curled across his lips. His eyes were cold, so, so cold. Then he stalked to the elevator and it slid open for him.

Just as it was closing, I whispered, "Till then."

The doors shut.

We parted ways just like that, not friends—never friends—but as close to that as we could be. I respected him for being him, I suppose. For his code of honor perhaps. Even now I can not say exactly _why_ he touched my heart.

A few hours later as we stood counting the seconds to the gong, as I glanced over the tributes and the supplies, he caught my eye briefly. But so did Peeta and the gong sounded and the Games began. Disaster after disaster seemed to strike. First I was off the plate late because of Peeta distracting me. Then the male from District 9 fought me for a backpack. Then the female from 2 killed him and then tried to kill me. It wasn't till after the Games were over as I was watching the replay up on stage during my interview that I saw things from a different perspective, especially after Enobaria and Brutus had spoken with me.

Clove had killed both tributes from 7. In and of itself that wasn't strange. In the riot of the Bloodbath her true motives could have very easily been mistaken by the viewers. But I had been given inside information about the workings of the minds of those born in 2. I saw what no one else outside of District 2 did. She had done it to keep me alive. The two from 7 had been placed beside each other and had, due to the female's speed, gotten their hands on a few weapons—he an axe, and she a sword or machete or something. They had started forward to where I and the male from 9 were struggling over the orange backpack when Clove had noticed. She had immediately sent two knives winging into the backs of their necks, and then, as they died, she had dealt with 9, who she had obviously viewed as a lesser threat to me. Then she had, as I ran form the scene, sent a blade at me. Her reasoning, according to her mentor Enobaria, with whom she had entrusted her respect of me and her hope of giving me a weapon if I didn't retrieve one myself, had been that if I could block it I deserved to live, but if I didn't have the sense then I was just another kill on her list.

* * *

Day Four, Friday, July 14th - The Tree

* * *

Three days later and twelve people dead in total, after I had been herded and wounded by the Gamemakers' fire, Cato and his pack treed me. They were a bit beat up, the female from 4 had a broken arm and most of them were wheezing from the smoke. I glared down at them, Peeta the confusing turn-coat, Cato who I refused to think about, the female from 2 who was grinning ferally up at me, the female from 4 whose eyes glinted gleefully up, and both from 1 who stood slightly apart with their long range weapons at the ready. They were big and heavy and even if Cato didn't lift a hand against me all he had to do was stand by and let the others do it. They were big . . . a smile spread over my lips. They were too big.

"How's everything with you?" I called down cheerfully. They all look confused and even a bit wary.

"Well enough," Cato returned, with questioning eyes. "Yourself?"

"It's been a bit warm for my taste," I smirked down at him, falling into that easy banter we had begun in the Training Center. "The air's better up here. Why don't you come on up?"

He gave me an almost lazy smile, "Think I will."

"Here, take this, Cato," the female from 1 offered and tried to hand him her bow and sheath of arrows.

"No," he waved her away, "I'll do better with my sword."

Then he hoisted himself into the tree and began climbing. I just watched him, knowing that he'd never get close enough to me to use that ugly sword. He got to about fifteen feet before the branch he was holding snapped. He had actually got farther than I had thought he would, only about five feet below me, close enough to catch a sight of my burned calf and begin to comment on it but he was too heavy and not patient enough. His words contorted into yells of surprise as he flailed and, almost amusingly, smacked like a rag doll into the lower branches. He hit the ground with a resounding thud and lay still for a minute gasping for breath. Then he clambered to his feet swearing with all manner of coarse language. I had to laugh at him.

"What did I tell you about losing your temper, Cato?" I teased.

He snarled up at me and waved the female from 1— _Glimmer_ is a name, I mean _really_ , did her parents know _how_ _ridiculous_ it sounded—up the tree. Knowing that she was lighter than Cato I steeled myself for the pain and swung up higher into the thinner branches. She climbed till the branches started cracking and then tried, and spectacularly failed, to shoot me with the bow. I teased her endlessly over it. Calling her _sparkles_ and _shiny_ and _glassy_ and _shimmer_ and _glint_ and a whole host of other names but never her real one. It made her downright furious, but after screaming at me she climbed back down and they began arguing. Each had their opinion and each wanted me dead and all hated me, but Cato was the alpha of the pack and he shot down their stupid, as well as some of their smarter, plans to force me down. But the night was coming on and eventually it was Peeta who broke up the argument with the annoyed words: "Oh, let her stay up there. It's not like she's going anywhere. We'll deal with her in the morning."

Glowering at all of them I settled down in a fork in the tree and waited for sleep to find me. It didn't. Down below they talked loudly of their homes and families. Cato noticeably mentioned nothing of having a sister and talked only of the fights he got into and a long string of girlfriends which I knew didn't exist. From what he had told me marriage and love was sacred to his district. I almost wanted to call down and ask him whether he thought his mother approved of his boasting but the pain and exhaustion were overcoming me and all I wanted was for it to end. In fact I was contemplating making a deal with Cato so that I could climb down and duel him and him only—I wanted to die with a bit of dignity and I knew he would give me that—when I noticed the eyes.

Human eyes, glinting in the Career's torchlight.

Rue's eyes.

Slowly she pointed to a point above my head and when I looked up into the gloom I saw the tracker jacker nest hanging high above me. A desperate plan began to form in my head, but when I looked back at Rue she was gone. I made my decision and banished all my thoughts of death. I began to climb. As I reached the nest the Capitol's seal shone in the sky and the anthem began to play. I started to saw.

_Back, forth._

_Back, forth._

_Back, forth._

Over and over till my hands were screaming at me and my leg was protesting. I got halfway through before I had to stop or risk the Career pack hearing me. When I returned to my sleeping bag I found a pot of something in a silver parachute. I unscrewed the lid and by the smell knew it to be medicine. I touched it gently and the almost blinding pain in my fingers disappeared.

"Oh, Haymitch, I whispered. "Thank you."

Carefully I rubbed the priceless stuff into my calf and hands and then packed it away. Down below the Careers had taken to calling up insults to me. I leaned over the side of my branch and, grinning down at them, began to sing a song composed by my great-grandmother's cousin. One she had supposedly sung at her reaping.

 _You can't take my past.  
_ _Y_ _ou can't take my history.  
_ _You could take my pa,  
_ _But his name's a mystery.  
_ _Nothing you can take from me was ever worth keeping._

The kids below stared up at me, their faces comical. Peeta looked confused, Cato amused, the female from 2 was quite annoyed, the female from 4 was smiling admiringly, the male from 1 glared in anger and his district partner looked confused like Peeta.

 _You can't take my charm.  
_ _You can't take my humor.  
_ _You can't tale my wealth,  
_ _'Cause it's just a rumor.  
_ _Nothing you can take from me was ever worth keeping._

Some of them began to laugh, but the next two verses shut them up quick.

 _Thinking you're so fine.  
_ _Thinking you can have mine.  
_ _Thinking you're in control.  
_ _Thinking you'll change me, maybe rearrange me.  
_ _Think again, if that's your goal,  
_ _'Cause . . ._

 _You can't take my sass.  
_ _You can't take my talking.  
_ _You can kiss my ass  
_ _And then keep on walking.  
__Nothing you can take from me was ever worth keeping.  
_

_No, sir,  
_ _Nothing you can take from me is worth dirt.  
_ _Take it, cause I'd give it free. It won't hurt.  
_ _Nothing you can take from me was ever worth keeping._

The insults came up louder and thicker than before. I just laughed and began singing again.

 _No, sir,  
_ _Nothing you can take from me is worth dirt.  
_ _Take it, cause I'd give it free. It won't hurt.  
_ _Nothing you can take from me was ever worth keeping._

 _You can't take my past.  
_ _Y_ _ou can't take my history.  
_ _You could take my pa,  
_ _But his name's a mystery.  
_ _Nothing you can take from me was ever worth keeping._

 _Thinking you're so fine.  
_ _Thinking you can have mine.  
_ _Thinking you're in control.  
_ _Thinking you'll change me, maybe rearrange me.  
_ _Think again, if that's your goal,  
_ _'Cause . . ._

I choked on my laughter and began coughing. _'Cause,_ I thought, _you don't know about the wasps._

The insults and names kept coming, but minutes after I had stopped hacking I was sound asleep.

* * *

Day Five, Saturday, July 15th - Tracker Jackers

* * *

I was awakened at dawn by the cry of a mockingjay. I smiled at it and, after treating my burns once more, packed up my bag. Before I climbed up to the nest I wasted precious moments watching the tributes below sleeping peacefully. Cato and his district partner were sleeping side by side, she curled into his side while one of his arms was flung possessively—or if you knew him, protectively—over her shoulder. The male from 1 was snoring by the dying remains of the fire with the female from 4, Glimmer was slumped against the trunk, obviously supposed to be on guard. And Peeta slept farthest away, as though he couldn't stand to be near them.

My eyes were drawn back to Cato's sleeping form. I hoped he wouldn't die. I knew how bad a tracker jacker sting was because of an unlucky accident in the woods back in 12 that I very nearly hadn't survived. Turning away, I called Rue's name in a loud whisper. She appeared immediately. _Has she slept at all?_ I wondered.

I held up my knife and mimed sawing. She smiled, gave me a nod, and disappeared with a soft rustle. The next tree rustled. Then the next and I had to smother my laugh. She was leaping from tree to tree, and suddenly her seven in training made sense. In fact if they hadn't been so drunk I was certain the Gamemakers would have given her at least a ten. She deserved a twelve.

The sun was rising and without stalling any longer I scaled the tree to the nest and began sawing. The tracker jacker wasps were still subdued, but a few were waking and crawling out. I sawed faster. They began trickling out a bit faster.

_Back, forth._

_Back, forth._

_Back, forth._

I began to panic. One of them stung my knee but I ignored the pain; I'd had worse. I took a breath.

I _had_ had worse and I had survived.

_Back, forth._

_Back, forth._

_Back, forth._

The knife cut through and I shoved the branch away from me. It turned and tumbled hitting a few branches before breaking open on the ground. The swarm broke free in a frenzy.

A second wasp stung me on the cheek and a third on the back of the neck. I dug the three barbed stingers out and threw them away. Unlike my last encounter with these mutations I didn't feel as woozy. My mother had told me that sometimes people became immune to the venom after being stung repeatedly, but she had also said that for some people the experience became worse and they were more likely to die, so I had not paid much attention to her. As I hung from a branch I figured I was one of the former who became immune over time.

Below me it was mayhem. Only a few of the Careers had the common sense to run without looking back. Amongst the screams I heard Cato's voice shouting, "To the lake! To the lake!" Some of them followed him as he charged through the trees. Glimmer and the female from 4 were too confused, no doubt already in the throws of the hallucinations, and they staggered around not really leaving the small clearing.

I waited till the wasps were gone before leaving my tree and running in the opposite direction as the Careers. I began to feel weak and dizzy but I kept going till I found my pool. I submerged myself and would have stayed there till the venom had run its course if I hadn't remembered the bow. In seconds I was on my feet and flying back to the clearing. I needed that bow. I reached Glimmer just as the cannon fired and my hallucinations began. But my brain, being familiar with the venom though not entirely immune, was able to continue processing thoughts and I forced the bow from her dead grip and tore the sheath of arrows from her back.

I had just got them when the pounding footsteps alerted me that the Careers were returning. I couldn't run so I nocked an arrow shakily as my grasp on reality slowly slipped. Peeta was the first to burst through the bushes, spear raised to kill. He didn't throw it though. "What are you doing here?" He hissed at me, angrily. "Are you mad? Get up! Get up!" I obeyed in confusion. "Run!" He screamed. "Run!"

Then Cato appeared, glistening and sparkling gold in the half-reality I was living. He raised his sword at Peeta and my district partner whirled around. The metal clashed, hurting my ears. But I caught Cato's clear, un-venom-affected eye and he screamed, "Run, Cleo, run! Don't come back! I'll hold him off!"

I ran.

He had pretended to hallucinate me as his little sister. It had been his way of telling me, without anyone else knowing, that he wasn't ready to kill me. Perhaps, even, that he had meant what he had said on the roof that last night.

 _'It better not come down to just the two of us.'_ He had said. I had agreed.

 _It better not come down to just the two of us. It better not come down to just the two of us. Itbetternotcomedowntojustthetwoofus. Itbetternotcomedowntojustthetwoofusitbetternotcomedowntojustthetwoofus._ The words became a meaningless string that my mind repeated over and over as the terror of the hallucinations took over and my brain lost all control.

* * *

Day Eight, Tuesday, July 18th - The Explosion

* * *

I was sitting hidden in the copse Rue had told me about watching the Cato and the male from District 1 arguing over whether or not they should bring District 3 along with them when they investigated the column of smoke that Rue's first signal fire was letting off. They were ridiculously loud.

"He's coming. We need him in the woods, and his job's done here anyway. No one can touch those supplies," argued Cato.

"What about Lover Boy?" District 1 shouted.

"I keep telling you, forget about him. I know where I cut him. It's a miracle he hasn't bled to death yet. At any rate, he's in no shape to raid us." Cato got in the other boy's face and glared him into submission. That was something he had been particularly good at. Even if it had never worked on me. Then he growled "Come on" and the whole group moved slowly out and right when they reached the woods I heard Cato say, "When we find her, I kill her in my own way, and no one interferes."

To me that could have meant a hundred different things. He could have been saying that he intended to draw my death out slowly and painfully. Or he could have meant that he wanted to tie me up and keep me a prisoner till the Finale. Or he could have meant that he wanted to kill me quickly and painlessly. Or he could have meant that he wanted to give me a fair fight. Or . . . the possibilities were endless.

While I was wondering, they faded out of my sight. For the next half hour I contemplated the problem set before me: How was I to destroy the pile? I came up with idea after idea and I shot them each down. I had finally decided to take the risk and go in close when Foxface appeared about two hundred yards to my right. She ran for the pyramid, but just before she reached it she stopped and began a strange dance. Sometimes walking a few steps, sometimes hopping on one foot. Once she over shot her mark and stumbled and she froze in terror but after a little while she relaxed and continued on. She filled her pack and replicated that strange dance once more and melted back into the woods.

The answer didn't strike me for a while yet and I was getting angrier and angrier at my inability to understand when I stumbled onto the answer quite by accident. It was mined. That was the only explanation I had that made sense. Even so I double checked the metal plates that circled the Cornucopia. _Yes, it is mined. No wonder Cato was so comfortable leaving it unguarded! Well, Cato,_ I thought, _you must have forgotten that not much escapes my notice. Or that I had to get that eleven for some reason._

I returned to Rue's copse and studied the pyramid with new eyes. I was searching for something that would cause a chain reaction and . . . there! That sack of apples would do perfectly. I allotted myself three arrows and found my range. I shot three times in quick succession. The first opened a tear in the burlap sack, the second widened it, the third released the apples. Then I was thrown backward by the force of the explosion.

I had had my wind knocked out of me, but thankfully my weapons were unharmed. For the next few minutes flaming debris rained down upon me. When it was done raining fire I rolled over and tried to stand but I was far too dizzy. I waited for it pass but it didn't. I began to panic. I couldn't stay, the Careers would find me and Cato . . . well he would be furious and it wouldn't matter whether he wanted to kill me or not. For the sake of his district's safety he would have to. I touched my ears, realizing with a start that I couldn't hear and my left hand came away bloody. I'd gone deaf, at least that was what I thought then, and my world came crashing down. I was a hunter and I relied on all of my senses. Without my hearing I was worthless. Without my hearing I was dead meat, literally. But I knew that without a doubt that I was live on every screen in Panem. _That means Prim is watching me. That Cleo is too._ That last thought struck me as odd. Odd because I was thinking about what a girl I had never met was thinking about me. _Is she angry? Is she sad?_

Decidedly annoyed with myself, I pulled up my hood so that I did not leave behind a trail of blood and began to crawl wobbly back to Rue's copse. Another blast knocked me down again. I forced myself up. Twice more that happened before I had finished dragging myself into my hiding place. There I collapsed. When I raised my head I saw Cato barreling onto the hard packed dirt plain. He tore at his hair and fell to his knees and pummeled the earth and I had no doubt he was screaming and cursing, even worse than when he fell out of the tree, though I couldn't hear him. Funnily, the only thought that struck me in the midst of this spectacle was: _When did he go mad? Is he really only acting?_

Then I realized that whether he was simply acting or not didn't matter. He was no doubt furious with me because he couldn't survive long without the food from that supply pile and he intended to get back home to his sister just like I did. So whether he was pretending to be mad for the Capitol's benefit or he really was insane I was in big, big trouble. There would be no more second chances. No more mercy. He could not afford it. He would hunt me down and kill me. It would be an impossible miracle if he took pity on my sister and did it quickly.

The others in the pack started looking through the mess but didn't seem to find anything. District 3 had done his job far too well and Cato knew it because he turned to him suddenly and began to scream at him. At least that is what it looked like to me and what the cameras showed me up on stage after the Games in the final cut. _Had his mother known how extensive her son's vocabulary was?_ The boy turned and ran for the woods, but Cato grasped him in a tight headlock from behind. A second later his muscles rippled and he twisted his victim's head sharply to the side. Then he dropped the boy. It took me a moment to realize that 3 was dead. Cato had snapped his neck. I knew enough about the human body to know that his death had been nearly painless.

Cato was smart, he knew I was the one who had done it. He just didn't know _how_. But he was positive that I had done it and that I was alive. I watched the other two, his district partner and the male from 1, try to calm him down. He wanted to go hunting but from their gestures they seemed to be trying to convince him that the bomber—me—was dead. In my opinion he accepted that theory far too quickly. Making it clear to me he still didn't relish the idea of murdering me. _So he was acting. He's not actually insane like he wants everyone to think._

I didn't understand his strategy—I mean, why would he want anyone to think he was so unstable—till a year or two after the 74th Games. Till I was being sold to random different people. An unstable tribute can protest such treatment and not be punished. They aren't as popular. They aren't in control of their actions. They can't be controlled with threats. The Capitalites prefer to forget them.

By nightfall my hearing had not yet returned. 3 had been airlifted from the arena. The Career pack was waiting for the seal and the confirmation of deaths; I was waiting to see who had died earlier in the day. I watched as the boy from 3 and 10 appeared one after the other. Then the seal came back for a moment . . . and darkness fell. They knew I was alive. Cato could no longer delay. As I had predicted they geared up and filed out into the woods. I was safe for the time being so I slept. Or rather I tried to sleep. The cold and the wind combined with the dizziness and the ringing in my right ear made rest an almost imposable task, but finally I drifted off.

* * *

Day Sixteen, Wednesday, July 26th - The Finale

* * *

Something jerked Peeta away from me. With raw, confused terror I turned and saw him. The mutts were yapping and scrabbling at the golden metal. They hadn't done it. I looked up. Cato was standing tall and proud on the very lip of the horn. His eyes were wild and he seemed more beast than man. But after I had noticed all that I didn't fixate on him like I would have if I had viewed him as a threat to my life, I fixated on who he had in a headlock—Peeta. Somehow, even though I should have, I did not fear him. I knew Cato well enough by then to know that he would snap my district partner's neck. Just as simple as that. Just like he had killed the male from 3. But I wasn't certain exactly where I stood with him. He had released me once. He had allowed himself to be convinced that I was dead in order to give me a head start. He had gone after Thresh instead of me during the Feast. But he also had a district to protect, and a sister he loved, and an image to maintain. He also could have been insane for all I knew right then. He might have not relished killing me before but that was _before_ , and in any event he really didn't like Peeta for whatever reason. So he would have no problem killing him.

I watched as Peeta clawed weakly at Cato's arm. It was a waste of his waning energy. There was no way for him to free himself, only I could do something about that. All these weeks in the arena had hardened me to killing. Death had always been my next door neighbor back in 12, but now we were close like the best of friends. But as I aimed my second to last arrow at Cato's face a tremor began to shake in my heart, causing me to lower my weapon slightly. Could I really kill this man? Yes he had done horrible things, but I knew that he would honor the deaths of every single tribute. He would honor them in the way only someone from 2 could. He would salute them with his fist. He would pound his chest—once for honor, a second time for bravery, and then he would raise his fist into the air and remember.

I had seen that salute before. I had condemned it. Then, standing there in the cold, in the wind, amidst the howling, watching Cato's proud, wild face, watching Peeta's desperate gasping, I _understood_ it. Cato had explained it to me before, but I hadn't understood. My resolution faltered.

"Shoot me and he goes down with me," Cato called gleefully over the yapping of the mutts and a sardonic smile shot over his face. **_'How do you intend to finish this? We're at your mercy?'_** his eyes asked, deadly serious, but calm and composed. He was giving me a chance to end the Games with a single shot. All I had to do was send my arrow into Peeta's neck and I would end everything. The arrow would sink through his jugular and into Cato's unarmored collar. Within minutes I would be the sole victor of the 74th Hunger Games. He was giving me the chance to win, showing that he didn't believe both Peeta and I would be allowed to leave the arena. He wasn't insane. I knew that. If he was willing to offer me that, willing commit such blatant treason, then he was only acting for the cameras. He was still Cato.

I didn't know what to do. I couldn't make myself shoot Peeta—he was my district partner and there was a sort of loyalty that formed between tributes from the same district no matter what their personal backgrounds were, _and_ I was supposed to be in love with him—but there _had_ to be an end to all of this. I raised my arrow back up to Cato's face. But still I didn't shoot. In that moment, and later too, I pretended my indecision to act was because he _really would_ have dragged Peeta over with him if he fell, but now I wonder whether it was for some other reason. I cared for both the boy and the man before me. If I dragged the encounter out Peeta would die of asphyxiation. Then only Cato and I would be left. I flinched at the idea and Cato eyed me, still laughing insanely. I couldn't bear to wonder what would happen in that scenario, but my traitorous mind still wandered.

He would have been unable to hurt me—somehow I knew that he would have exposed his district if it meant my life was saved. I would have been unwilling to do so either. The Gamemakers would have been in quite a fix then: The mad tribute who had been responsible for so much of the blood and the tribute who was supposed to be willing to do anything to get back to her sister, standing yards away from one another and arguing with their eyes, and perhaps their words, over who's sister would get their protector back. District 2's secret would have been out. We would have been punished. Our families and districts would have been punished. It would have been horror after horror.

I could see no end. If Peeta hadn't, in a last ditch effort, and unaware of the turmoil within my heart at the dilemma set before me, raised his trembling fingers and painted a dripping cross on Cato's hand, I do not know or want to know what nightmares would have occurred. In any event, Cato and I deciphered his reason in the same moment. Both of us knew that if I buried my arrow in his hand nothing would change. Physical pain had never been a problem for Cato. His training had beaten it out of him. To be the actor he needed to be to be one of District 2's tributes he needed to be able to act through the pain, through the surprise, through anything—even death. Pain would not have fazed him. The arrow would have entered his hand and he would have raised an eyebrow and I would have been left with only one arrow in my possession.

He studied me, his haughty look never faltering. Then the expression in his eye changed minutely. A new determination entered him and replaced the discord I hadn't known was there. His eyes spoke clearly. So clearly I have always wondered how it was possible. It was like I heard him whispering in my ear. But his expression never changed. His lips never moved.

 **_' '_ ** **_There is no gift too great to give, no price too high to pay, for wife and kin; t_** ** _here is no excuse for lying; there is no vice greater than cowardice; there is no betrayal worse than disloyalty; there is no honor greater than to die having fulfilled this creed.'_ ** **_That is my creed and the oath I have taken. Shoot my hand, Ember. Go home to your sister. But promise me this: If my sister is reaped, you will do anything and everything to send her back home to my parents. Anything. Cleo above your district. Cleo above your kin. Cleo above . . . Lover Boy.'_ **

_'Why?'_ I asked, shocked. _What has changed in him since that night on the roof? What about his father? Why does he ask for death? Why is he so concerned about Peeta?_

**_'Because that is my creed by which I live. Now promise . . . and shoot. The Gamemakers don't need to know that this wasn't their big showdown.'_ **

If I shot I would send him to his death. If I didn't, something worse would have happened.

 _'I . . . I promise.'_ I agreed, because that was easy. Of course I would protect his sister. ' _But . . . why?'_

 _'_ **_It doesn't matter Ember. Shoot me . . . . '_ **

Still I hesitated.

**_'I'm a good actor. Please.'_ **

What an understatement. _Good_ didn't even begin to describe his ability.

**_'Ember . . . . '_ **

I shot. Like he had promised his expression morphed into one of horror. He released Peeta as though unintentionally, and he slid his feet back, anticipating Peeta's backward shoulder-slam. His feet shot out from under him as they made contact with the blood-slick metal. Peeta wobbled and I lunged to pull him back. But my eyes were riveted on Cato's as he fell. There was a free _joy_ in them. If I hadn't known better I would have thought he was celebrating something important to him—his marriage or his victory of the Games. Right before he curled and twisted, flipping himself so that he landed upon his feet, I saw the flashing of his golden district token. A knife appeared in his hand out of nowhere and he fought the mutt pack with a fury that he had never matched before. Just like a flame, his valor, his strength, and his bloodlust, burned brightest just before his life was snuffed out.

Every minute he fought was a minute I spent on my knees watching blankly as he was worn down. The sky darkened as the sun set. When night finally fell Peeta pulled me away and I steeled my heart and turned my back. I treated my district partner's injuries and let him pull me against his chest for warmth. The hours past, the wolves overwhelmed him. He fell with a thud that was lost on my single ear. The yapping and snarling drowned out his nonexistent cry of rage that he would have given if he had been displaying his Career persona. This man being ripped to shreds was Cato Hadley. This was Cleo's big brother. I had sent him to his death— _I_ had, it didn't matter that he had gone willingly. There was no cry of rage.

Those next hours were the worst in my life. The cold was bad. Lying to Peeta was worse. But listening to Cato's moans and whimpers and knowing that he had stepped off the edge _willingly,_ for _me . . ._ it took all I had in me not to tear myself out of Peeta's arms and throw myself over the twenty-foot drop and drive the mutts off his body! The stars came out and the moon began to rise. The hours past and the moon's slow trail through the heavens was the only marker for the passing of time. Cato's pain became my pain. His cries and moans became my own. I was in agony. I was dying . . . slowly. But for hours no sound passed my lips.

"Why don't they just kill him?" I asked Peeta desperately, when I felt like I would go mad if I had to hear it, feel it, any longer.

He might have answered, he might not have. I didn't hear, I didn't hear anything but Cato.

* * *

Day Seventeen, Thursday, July 27th - The creed, the oath, the salute

* * *

When the sun began to rise I unzipped the jacket and rolled away from Peeta. I scrambled for a weapon, any weapon. I found my bow. I took the arrow from Peeta's tourniquet. I was willing to jump down and slit Cato's throat with a knife if that was what it took to end his suffering, to end my suffering.

As I leaned over the edge I found him right below me. He was nothing like he used to be. He was a raw hunk of meat. No longer a man. But he must have sensed my presence because he opened his one remaining eye and fixed me with his stare, reminding me that he would always be Cato.

 ** _'Get along with it Ember,'_** he encouraged. His tone was light, teasing, and almost annoyed. It was the tone that he had used to grumble about my lack of manners. **_'It was my choice. It is my choice.'_**

I forced a smile for him, and he twisted his tattered features into something that would no doubt have been a blinding grin if he had had a face left.

"Sleep until the Dawn," I whispered softly, repeating his words from the roof. "I'll be there."

And if it was possible, his grin stretched wider, and I could have sworn that the murmur that escaped his lips was his answer. ' _Watch the stars for me, Ember. I'll be there.'_

Ever since when I have looked up at the night sky I have seen his memory reflected there. As long as the stars continue to shine I will remember him. I will not forget his looks nor his tone nor that certain aura that followed him wherever he went.

I drew the bowstring to my cheek and sighted along the straight Capitalite arrow.

I released the taunt string.

A second later my last arrow quivered in his eye-socket. As his cannon shot something broke within me and I will always wonder what exactly it was. Something had been severed that had never been meant to be cut. My will? My heart? My sanity? My conscience? I can't say. All I know is that I snapped something vital.

What instinct it was that prompted me to, when he died in the end unlike I could ever have predicted, force myself to stand on shaking legs and pound my right fist against my heart five times I will never quite understand.

But this I _do_ know: the first time my fist connected with my breast was for love. Because he had loved his sister unconditionally. And later I learned that he had added me to that list of people. Not just added, he had placed me at the top. Because once love is given by one man to one woman, regardless of how the other recuperates, it cannot be retracted, at least not in 2. They say that love is a choice that a person makes. A choice to stand by a person in thick and thin, through hell and high water, to forgive, to comfort, to make sacrifices for. In District 2 you can't take back that choice.

The second time was for honor. Because I had known no other in my life who had brought more honor to their district, or had been more honorable in character. Because I wanted to show everyone in Panem that I honored him.

The third for truth. Because he had never lied to me. Because he had never let the Capital's lies cloud his mind like I had let them cloud mine.

The fourth for bravery. Because everything he had done from the moment he had volunteered had been brave. Because throwing himself off the Cornucopia had been brave . . . and selfless.

The fifth for loyalty. Because there could be no better brother . . . no better son . . . no better friend . . . no better example of a district's standards.

And when I raised my fist into the air and voiced a wordless cry . . . that was for remembrance. Because I would remember. And I wanted every other person in the country of Panem to do so as well.

I remembered watching this same ritual every time District 2 had a victor. Once for honor, twice for bravery, a fist in the air and a shout for remembrance. I had once condemned that salute as a mockery, now I used it to show honor to the man who had chosen to give his life for mine. Only those in District 2 would understand . . . and I knew that they at least would remember.

Gale would have been horrified by the thoughts rushing through my mind. The old me would have been as well. But I was unashamed to admit to myself that launching myself off that ledge into the confused pack of mutts was _very_ tempting. But the mutts left and they dragged him with them for a little way before they vanished reluctantly into a hole in the ground and the opportunity was gone. The Games were over, we— _Peeta_ and I—could go home. My legs collapsed and I toppled unintentionally over the edge. Instincts took over and I curled inward, landing with a painful jolt on my feet. I dropped to my knees in the blood. Through the haze of pain and fatigue I noticed the hard lines of something beneath my hand. My fingers curled around the object.

Later, after I had managed to force the Gamemakers to acknowledge both Peeta and I as victors and we were in the hovercraft, I carefully opened my fist and for the first time gazed upon the broken gold chain and pendent that had once adorned Cato's strong neck. The words on the rectangle have since been branded on my heart. They have guided me and grounded me throughout the hard years.

On the one side was written this:

 _Tell me, underneath my armor  
_ _Am I loyal, brave and true?  
_ _Who am I without my armor,  
_ _Standing in my father's shoes?_

On the other:

 _There is no gift too great to give,  
_ _No price too high to pay, for wife and kin;  
_ _There is no excuse for lying;  
_ _There is no vice greater than cowardice;  
_ _There is no betrayal worse than disloyalty;  
_ _There is no honor greater than to die having fulfilled this creed._

* * *

The Finale of the 83rd Games, July 21st - Control Room

* * *

Today as I finger that necklace and stare at the small screen before me, as I watch Cleopatra Hadley salute the dead tributes of the 83rd Hunger Games, I close my eyes and _remember_ , letting the tears run down. Brutus—one of my closest friends among the victor's ranks, Enobaria coming in first for no very good reason, she wasn't even _his_ mentor like Brutus was—squeezes my shoulder. We, meaning I and the other victors from 2 as well as some from 4—Finnick and Dune, will be in hot water for a while. Cleo wasn't supposed to win these Games, but an oath is an _oath_.

I swore to to put Cleo above everything and I have . . .

. . . and I will continue to do so.

Prim tried to heal me after I came home like she had when our father died, but her time of holding the centerstage in my heart had passed. She had lost her power over me. It was Cleo who eventually found my broken pieces and welded them back together. It was Cleo who held me as I cried for her brother, for my sister, for my district. It was Cleo who taught me how to laugh again, it is for Cleo that I chose singing as my victor's required talent and it is for Cleo that I am alive now.

I have cut all my ties with my district save those of family, and even so a person would be hard pressed to find the signs that show I care about them. I have done my best by my tributes, but considering that I broke the star-crossed-lovers-from-12 thing off so soon after my Games, they haven't done well.

Peeta and I, though Peeta to a lesser extent, have garnered Snow's anger. My mother died mysteriously of an illness two years ago. And eight years ago Peeta's mother had some sort of accident that caused her to lose the use of one of her arms—not that Peeta cared much. Peacekeeper presence was tippled a month before our Victory Tour—though all of the Peacekeepers were from 2 so they turned a blind eye on all illegal activity committed by anyone in my family or the Hawthorne's. Somehow they all know that though I have given them up, still, in some deep forgotten recess of my heart, I don't want them to suffer.

Haymitch hates me. My tributes spit at me. If Peeta sees me enter a room he is in he immediately gets up and leaves it. I am hated in my district of birth. Though, secretly, I think the people from the Hob understand and only pretend because they know I would want them too. I hope they don't though. That would be too hard to stomach.

I am renowned and loved by the district that has silently adopted me. District 2 has given me a place and a family. My name is written on their records. I am a citizen of two districts, and if anyone ever cared enough to look, they would find that my official papers now state that I am a Hadley.

I lift my hand and squeeze Brutus' hand in return. He pulls me to my feet. Enobaria comes up behind us and gives me a bear hug.

"Keep watching the stars, Katniss. He'll be waiting for you till the Dawn."

The Dawn. It is 2's name for the End. Sometimes it refers to when Panem is overthrown and equality reigns over the land that was once called North America. In other contexts it refers to the second coming of the Christ. When all things will be made new again, when the dead will rise and all the earth be judged. Or at other times it can simply mean good times. My words about the stars have been added to their tradition. They are said to remind a person who is struggling that the Dawn _will_ come and that those who are alive now will know when it is near because the stars will fade just before the sun rises. _It will always get harder before it gets better,_ it says, _Hold on. Keep your chin up._


End file.
